One day in late July I had a referral to visit Mrs. B, a soon-to-be-discharged Catholic patient. I was feeling confident after a meaningful conversation with her, but then, the dreaded moment came. She looked up at the television, which had been on throughout our conversation, gave me a knowing glance and asked, “so, what do you think about all of that?” On the screen were scrolling headlines about the war between Israel and Hamas. There were images of rockets, demolished buildings, frightened people, and the occasional, requisite pundit. I took a deep breath.
I wanted to tell Mrs. B.: Israel is a country, a land, and a people that I love dearly. During the year that I lived there I ate bowls of Jerusalem’s most delicious hummus while sitting in the shuk, the open-air market. After Kol Nidre services I walked down the middle of Emek Refaim, usually a busy thoroughfare, but that night it was full of people in white without a car anywhere in sight. I bounced between Hebrew and English while talking theology and politics with cousins who live in the West Bank, and I met Palestinians building the infrastructure for an NGO sector focused on peace and relationship building. I proudly watched my wife pray with Women of Wall amidst hundreds of Haredi protestors and welcomed Shabbat while watching the sun set over the Mediterranean. And this summer, as Israel, the country, the land, and the people I love, suffered, I suffered with her.
I wanted to tell Mrs. B.: I reject the false dichotomy of Pro-Israel versus Pro-Palestine. I love and want to be of strength and support to Israel, but I am unwilling to be a hawk and I believe that we can be critical of Israel’s policies, so I don’t fit into the Pro-Israel box. I believe that the Palestinian people deserve a state, but I do not have faith in their leadership and I reject the BDS Movement that calls for boycotts, divestment, and sanctions against Israel, so I don’t fit into the Pro-Palestinian box either.
I wanted to tell Mrs. B.: I am a Reform Jew and I am a Zionist. I am a Reform Jew, and I respect the dignity and the life of every human being. I am a Reform Jew, and I believe in values of equality, fairness, and democracy. I am a Reform Jew, and I always close my personal prayers with a prayer for peace. And I am a Zionist. I believe in the political and social movement that calls for Jewish self-determination in the Land of Israel. I am a Zionist, and I believe that the State of Israel can be a beacon of morality. I am a Zionist, and I believe that the Zionist dream can only be fulfilled when Israel achieves peace with her neighbors.
But, I didn’t say any of that. When I get asked questions about Israel, I am usually afraid to speak up. Afraid of being judged. Afraid of being not-knowledgeable enough. Afraid to have to articulate an opinion on a topic that I regularly struggle with.
But, with Mrs. B., I didn’t divulge any of this. Instead, I deflected and successfully avoided answering altogether.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m Jewish. I am not sure about your experience, but my station in life seems to give people the impression that, regardless of the setting, they can ask me about my thoughts on Israel. But each time, I worry and I feel stuck. What are they expecting me to say? Do I have a responsibility to give the so-called “Pro-Israel” party line? How do I convey the nuance of a complicated political and historical reality? How do I explain the frustration I feel seeing Israel condemned for self-defense while still expressing the inner torment I feel seeing pain and death on both fronts? Can I share my deep sadness for the kidnapping and killing of three innocent Israeli boys? Is there space for my rage at Jewish vigilantes who brutally murdered a young Palestinian? What about the message of hope from the tragic yet beautiful scene of mothers from both sides mourning together? Where can I weave in a progressive mindset that tries to view the long game with a desperate yearning for peace? And, how do I share that the vitriol I see on TV, in the paper, and, in particular, on social media do not speak for me or for my community?
This summer, when I was able to muster the emotional energy to “tune in” to the conversation, I invariably wanted to distance myself from it. Media outlets had experts who spoke in empty maxims and angry sound bites. Newspapers dug into polemical positions, and I didn’t know if I could trust what I was reading. But social media was the worst of all. My newsfeed spewed hate. From the right and from the left, I could not believe what I saw. In the platforms that are purported to be the great space for instant connection and conversation, people spoke passed, not to, each other. I saw hyperbolized statements claiming to possess the whole truth and demonizing anyone who dared to disagree. I felt broken, sad, and far away. So, I distanced myself further from the discomfort and pain.
I saw Israel, the country, the land, and the people I love suffering, and I suffered with her. And, as I look to the New Year, I perceive a deep need for healing and restoration.
After all, isn’t that what this season is about? When we engage in the process of teshuvah, we seek to restore that which is broken. But, that process is never easy. If it were, we would have no need for these Yamim Noraim, these days of awe. To prepare for teshuvah is to be stuck. It is to be in a place of internal discomfort with the status quo. If you could do something about it, you would, but, somehow, you remain stuck. You look for a path toward reconciliation and hope. You desire a way out, to move, to act so that somehow there will be an opportunity for real change.
I wanted to tell Mrs. B.: Israel is a country, a land, and a people that I love dearly. During the year that I lived there I ate bowls of Jerusalem’s most delicious hummus while sitting in the shuk, the open-air market. After Kol Nidre services I walked down the middle of Emek Refaim, usually a busy thoroughfare, but that night it was full of people in white without a car anywhere in sight. I bounced between Hebrew and English while talking theology and politics with cousins who live in the West Bank, and I met Palestinians building the infrastructure for an NGO sector focused on peace and relationship building. I proudly watched my wife pray with Women of Wall amidst hundreds of Haredi protestors and welcomed Shabbat while watching the sun set over the Mediterranean. And this summer, as Israel, the country, the land, and the people I love, suffered, I suffered with her.
I wanted to tell Mrs. B.: I reject the false dichotomy of Pro-Israel versus Pro-Palestine. I love and want to be of strength and support to Israel, but I am unwilling to be a hawk and I believe that we can be critical of Israel’s policies, so I don’t fit into the Pro-Israel box. I believe that the Palestinian people deserve a state, but I do not have faith in their leadership and I reject the BDS Movement that calls for boycotts, divestment, and sanctions against Israel, so I don’t fit into the Pro-Palestinian box either.
I wanted to tell Mrs. B.: I am a Reform Jew and I am a Zionist. I am a Reform Jew, and I respect the dignity and the life of every human being. I am a Reform Jew, and I believe in values of equality, fairness, and democracy. I am a Reform Jew, and I always close my personal prayers with a prayer for peace. And I am a Zionist. I believe in the political and social movement that calls for Jewish self-determination in the Land of Israel. I am a Zionist, and I believe that the State of Israel can be a beacon of morality. I am a Zionist, and I believe that the Zionist dream can only be fulfilled when Israel achieves peace with her neighbors.
But, I didn’t say any of that. When I get asked questions about Israel, I am usually afraid to speak up. Afraid of being judged. Afraid of being not-knowledgeable enough. Afraid to have to articulate an opinion on a topic that I regularly struggle with.
But, with Mrs. B., I didn’t divulge any of this. Instead, I deflected and successfully avoided answering altogether.
This may come as a surprise to you, but I’m Jewish. I am not sure about your experience, but my station in life seems to give people the impression that, regardless of the setting, they can ask me about my thoughts on Israel. But each time, I worry and I feel stuck. What are they expecting me to say? Do I have a responsibility to give the so-called “Pro-Israel” party line? How do I convey the nuance of a complicated political and historical reality? How do I explain the frustration I feel seeing Israel condemned for self-defense while still expressing the inner torment I feel seeing pain and death on both fronts? Can I share my deep sadness for the kidnapping and killing of three innocent Israeli boys? Is there space for my rage at Jewish vigilantes who brutally murdered a young Palestinian? What about the message of hope from the tragic yet beautiful scene of mothers from both sides mourning together? Where can I weave in a progressive mindset that tries to view the long game with a desperate yearning for peace? And, how do I share that the vitriol I see on TV, in the paper, and, in particular, on social media do not speak for me or for my community?
This summer, when I was able to muster the emotional energy to “tune in” to the conversation, I invariably wanted to distance myself from it. Media outlets had experts who spoke in empty maxims and angry sound bites. Newspapers dug into polemical positions, and I didn’t know if I could trust what I was reading. But social media was the worst of all. My newsfeed spewed hate. From the right and from the left, I could not believe what I saw. In the platforms that are purported to be the great space for instant connection and conversation, people spoke passed, not to, each other. I saw hyperbolized statements claiming to possess the whole truth and demonizing anyone who dared to disagree. I felt broken, sad, and far away. So, I distanced myself further from the discomfort and pain.
I saw Israel, the country, the land, and the people I love suffering, and I suffered with her. And, as I look to the New Year, I perceive a deep need for healing and restoration.
After all, isn’t that what this season is about? When we engage in the process of teshuvah, we seek to restore that which is broken. But, that process is never easy. If it were, we would have no need for these Yamim Noraim, these days of awe. To prepare for teshuvah is to be stuck. It is to be in a place of internal discomfort with the status quo. If you could do something about it, you would, but, somehow, you remain stuck. You look for a path toward reconciliation and hope. You desire a way out, to move, to act so that somehow there will be an opportunity for real change.
During these days we engage in חשבון הנפש (khesbon hanefesh), an accounting of the soul. We dig deep into ourselves to ask the difficult questions that we put off the rest of the year. And if we intend to engage in real transformation of the self, real teshuvah, then we are called to determine what needs to change so we can get out of our state of stuck-ness. How will we concretely shift our attitudes and activities that got us stuck in the first place?
I want to offer two paths toward affecting teshuvah. The first is the restorative potential of presence. Not presents like new iPhone6s, but presence, just being there with another person. This was the major revelation for me during my time as a chaplain. Being available to receive and reflect the emotions of another human being can do wonders for their emotional state. So often, when we suffer and when we face a moment of change or challenge that we are unprepared for, we feel alone.
This summer I heard from friends and family who live in Israel and from rabbis and classmates who visited. The resounding message I received was: Israelis felt alone. Whether on the right or the left, they felt like the world had forgotten that there were people behind each news story and human lives affected by each decision. They yearned for voices that would say: “I hear you. I see you. I am with you in this terribly difficult and troubling time.” Think of the power our presence could have to affect teshuvah—restoration for them.
But this summer, I too felt intensely alone. I felt like there was no place for me in the Israel conversation, no one speaking to me amidst the aphorisms and rhetoric. I share this message in hopes that this will resonate with those of you who also suffered this summer, who also felt alone, so that we can feel those feelings together. So we know that others share in our fear, our insecurity, our anger, our despair, and, I pray too, our hopes.
And thankfully, Woodlands give us regular opportunities to be present with one another. This year, in particular, we will be continuing with the Shalom Hartman Institute’s iEngage program. In iEngage we have an opportunity, in a safe space, to share. So often, each of us needs to feel heard. We can provide that for each other when we are also willing to be the person who hears. We do not have to agree on politics or policies, but we can begin by connecting on an emotional level. We can identify with one another through shared feelings of fear or anger, regardless of the context that serves as the impetus for those emotions.
Our next round of programming will begin on Wednesday, November 12. You can sign up on the website or though links in the weekly Woodlands email. Additionally, after services on October 24th we will have the opportunity to hear about the experiences of members of our community who traveled to Israel this summer.
The second path toward affecting teshuvah is: Hope. We often call Israel the “promised land,” but Naamah Kelman, Dean of Hebrew Union College’s Jerusalem campus, challenges us to think of it as a promising land.[1] What are the promises yet to be fulfilled? Where, amidst the hurt and sadness, the brokenness and confusion, do we find hope? How, during days of introspection and prospection, can we recommit ourselves to invest our energy into creating a future that is full of the potential we envision for Israel?
At Rosh Hashanah, we begin to think of starting anew and of the creative opportunity we have at the beginning of a journey. On Friday morning we will read from the very start of the book of Genesis. Verse two reads: וְהָאָרֶץ, הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ, וְחֹשֶׁךְ, עַל-פְּנֵי תְהוֹם. And the land wasתֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ (tohu va’vohu), unformed and void, and there was darkness upon the faces of the depths. And out of this space of chaos and darkness, the world is created, and God calls it good.
And, out of the chaos of the summer, we have the chance to rebuild and to work toward creating an opportunity for a hopeful future. At the beginning of the next Gregorian year, elections will be held across the globe to select delegates to the World Zionist Congress. This body directs funds and resources to organizations working within Israel. Those funds are distributed based on the makeup of the Congress. The Reform Movement currently holds a plurality of the American seats and, as such, has been able to direct over $20 million over the last five years to our Israeli counterparts, like World Union for Progressive Judaism, the Israel Religious Action Center, and other organizations who are working to sow the seeds of hope.
ARZA—the Association of Reform Zionists of America, is the voice of the Reform Movement on Israel. Supporting ARZA is part of stepping up to demand peace and fairness in the Jewish homeland. So, how can you do that?
On your way out, you can collect a pledge card like this one. It says that you pledge to vote for ARZA when elections for the World Zionist Congress occur between January 15 and April 30, 2015. That card will be sent back to the Woodlands office and we will be in touch to remind you to fulfill your pledge. Remember: filling out this card is NOT your vote. This is a pledge to vote come January-April of 2015.
Even if Israel is not your #1 issue, if it matters to you even in a small way, your voice on Israel matters. If you don’t speak up, no one will speak up for you and louder, angrier voices will prevail. I am hopeful that Israel can find a path to peace, and I hope that our voices can start to do teshuvah, to repair the brokenness and move toward the restoration we all so desperately need.
Israel is hard. It will continue to challenge us and demand that we ask difficult questions. But if we are present for one another and if we can work together to find and build toward hope, then, together, we can find creative potential amidst the chaos.
Kein Yehi Ratzon, Shanah Tovah.
Closing Blessing
It has always struck me that America, “the land of the free” has an anthem celebrating a military victory and Israel, the tiny nation that seems to always be fighting and yearns to be an אם חופשי (am khofshi), a free people, rallies around התקוה (HaTikvah)—The Hope. Hatkivah declares that, against all odds, we will always be hopeful.
The hope of two thousand years that has continued to beat in the heart of the Jewish people, the brokenness we wish to be restored, will only be accomplished through the work of our hands and the power of our voice. If we want Hope, we have to work for it.
This Rosh Hashanah, may we challenge ourselves to ask new questions and start new conversations. May we begin the process of rebuilding and reconnecting. And may we be blessed with the courage, the patience, and the strength to support each other as we continue in our unyielding search for hope.
This summer I heard from friends and family who live in Israel and from rabbis and classmates who visited. The resounding message I received was: Israelis felt alone. Whether on the right or the left, they felt like the world had forgotten that there were people behind each news story and human lives affected by each decision. They yearned for voices that would say: “I hear you. I see you. I am with you in this terribly difficult and troubling time.” Think of the power our presence could have to affect teshuvah—restoration for them.
But this summer, I too felt intensely alone. I felt like there was no place for me in the Israel conversation, no one speaking to me amidst the aphorisms and rhetoric. I share this message in hopes that this will resonate with those of you who also suffered this summer, who also felt alone, so that we can feel those feelings together. So we know that others share in our fear, our insecurity, our anger, our despair, and, I pray too, our hopes.
And thankfully, Woodlands give us regular opportunities to be present with one another. This year, in particular, we will be continuing with the Shalom Hartman Institute’s iEngage program. In iEngage we have an opportunity, in a safe space, to share. So often, each of us needs to feel heard. We can provide that for each other when we are also willing to be the person who hears. We do not have to agree on politics or policies, but we can begin by connecting on an emotional level. We can identify with one another through shared feelings of fear or anger, regardless of the context that serves as the impetus for those emotions.
Our next round of programming will begin on Wednesday, November 12. You can sign up on the website or though links in the weekly Woodlands email. Additionally, after services on October 24th we will have the opportunity to hear about the experiences of members of our community who traveled to Israel this summer.
The second path toward affecting teshuvah is: Hope. We often call Israel the “promised land,” but Naamah Kelman, Dean of Hebrew Union College’s Jerusalem campus, challenges us to think of it as a promising land.[1] What are the promises yet to be fulfilled? Where, amidst the hurt and sadness, the brokenness and confusion, do we find hope? How, during days of introspection and prospection, can we recommit ourselves to invest our energy into creating a future that is full of the potential we envision for Israel?
At Rosh Hashanah, we begin to think of starting anew and of the creative opportunity we have at the beginning of a journey. On Friday morning we will read from the very start of the book of Genesis. Verse two reads: וְהָאָרֶץ, הָיְתָה תֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ, וְחֹשֶׁךְ, עַל-פְּנֵי תְהוֹם. And the land wasתֹהוּ וָבֹהוּ (tohu va’vohu), unformed and void, and there was darkness upon the faces of the depths. And out of this space of chaos and darkness, the world is created, and God calls it good.
And, out of the chaos of the summer, we have the chance to rebuild and to work toward creating an opportunity for a hopeful future. At the beginning of the next Gregorian year, elections will be held across the globe to select delegates to the World Zionist Congress. This body directs funds and resources to organizations working within Israel. Those funds are distributed based on the makeup of the Congress. The Reform Movement currently holds a plurality of the American seats and, as such, has been able to direct over $20 million over the last five years to our Israeli counterparts, like World Union for Progressive Judaism, the Israel Religious Action Center, and other organizations who are working to sow the seeds of hope.
ARZA—the Association of Reform Zionists of America, is the voice of the Reform Movement on Israel. Supporting ARZA is part of stepping up to demand peace and fairness in the Jewish homeland. So, how can you do that?
On your way out, you can collect a pledge card like this one. It says that you pledge to vote for ARZA when elections for the World Zionist Congress occur between January 15 and April 30, 2015. That card will be sent back to the Woodlands office and we will be in touch to remind you to fulfill your pledge. Remember: filling out this card is NOT your vote. This is a pledge to vote come January-April of 2015.
Even if Israel is not your #1 issue, if it matters to you even in a small way, your voice on Israel matters. If you don’t speak up, no one will speak up for you and louder, angrier voices will prevail. I am hopeful that Israel can find a path to peace, and I hope that our voices can start to do teshuvah, to repair the brokenness and move toward the restoration we all so desperately need.
Israel is hard. It will continue to challenge us and demand that we ask difficult questions. But if we are present for one another and if we can work together to find and build toward hope, then, together, we can find creative potential amidst the chaos.
Kein Yehi Ratzon, Shanah Tovah.
Closing Blessing
It has always struck me that America, “the land of the free” has an anthem celebrating a military victory and Israel, the tiny nation that seems to always be fighting and yearns to be an אם חופשי (am khofshi), a free people, rallies around התקוה (HaTikvah)—The Hope. Hatkivah declares that, against all odds, we will always be hopeful.
The hope of two thousand years that has continued to beat in the heart of the Jewish people, the brokenness we wish to be restored, will only be accomplished through the work of our hands and the power of our voice. If we want Hope, we have to work for it.
This Rosh Hashanah, may we challenge ourselves to ask new questions and start new conversations. May we begin the process of rebuilding and reconnecting. And may we be blessed with the courage, the patience, and the strength to support each other as we continue in our unyielding search for hope.
[1] Ezrachi, Elan and Naamah Kelman. “Liberal Zionists Unite.” The Jewish Daily Forward. (August 29, 2014). http://forward.com/articles/204843/liberal-zionists-unite/
No comments:
Post a Comment